It's a Long Road to the Deep Roads
by bringmeadragon
Summary: Hawke will make it to the Deep Roads - if she can get the money, handle her eccentric companions, get a good night's sleep, and deal with her dark past - all while keeping her hands off Fenris and her foot out of her mouth. Angst, lust and snark ensue.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

And now I will break away from short stories and finally make an attempt to write something longer! Maker willing, this thing will actually get updated despite work and school and the like. The main idea for this is some of the issues I imagine my rogue would face leading up to the Dark Roads expedition - which of course includes a certain sexy male elf - and I'll try to keep things within the first act of Dragon Age 2.

I might take a lot of liberties here, so bear with me.

Rated "M" for the smut - _always the smut_ - and language, dark content, potential gore, lewd humour, etc. Just covering my bases here.

Cheers and enjoy!

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**CHAPTER 1** -_ it's the wrong side of the bed, all right._

Siobhan Hawke breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped over the mansion's threshold into the night. Swirling tendrils of her breath rose to meet the stars above, which burned much brighter than Hightown's streetlights ought to have allowed. She stopped and took a moment to reorient herself, letting the stillness of the night slow her heart rate. The ordeal in Tevinter Magister's supposed lair had been fruitless – and far more horrific than she'd imagined. She certainly didn't have a problem with fighting or even the type of scheme that had landed her there in the first place, but being that close to magic tended to make her uncomfortable. The more spells she dodged and demons she slayed, the more Hawke felt like she was becoming a part of it, enmeshed in something larger than her. Much larger, and much more dangerous. She shivered.

Hawke had been careful to keep those sentiments to herself and hoped that her nerves hadn't shown – the last thing she wanted was a crestfallen Bethany on her hands, and with Varric she had a reputation to protect – not to mention what the stranger they were aiding might have thought. Hawke had made a token effort to poke around a few of the rooms closer to the doors for loot before steeling away, and was relieved when her dwarven companion and sister finally stepped through the ornate doors to join her.

"It never ends." Hawke started at the voice, whirling to face Fenris, the mysterious elf leaning against the carved stone wall. She knew she should be more wary of the stranger with the ridiculous, fake-sounding name, but it was hard not to be sympathetic of his disappointment – and besides, her own Dalish-esque name was no better. She drank in the elf's silvery features, fascinated by his queer markings that seemed to glow even from the shadows. His expression was sour and his posture violently guarded, but even so Hawke couldn't help but think he was one of the more attractive people who she'd found herself cajoled into helping. Against all propriety she found it impossible not to stare.

"I escaped a land of dark magic only to have it hunt me at every turn." Fenris continued, his words dripping with resentment as he straightened. "It is a plague burned into my flesh and my soul… And now I find myself in the company of even more mages."

Hawke felt Bethany's indignant response before she heard it, and turned to stop her sister's retort. Of course Bethany paid her no mind, and snorted angrily. "You can speak to me directly."

Hawke crossed her arms and rolled her eyes, turning away from her sister in annoyance. Bethany may be playing sarcastic now, but Hawke was sure once they were home she wouldn't hear the end of it. She didn't want to have to defend a stranger to her sister, no matter how interesting and attractive he may be – but she wasn't entirely sure she disagreed with him. Fenris ignored them both and continued.

"I should have realized sooner what you really were." He said to Bethany before turning to Hawke, his emerald eyes glinting coldly. She met them boldly as a delicious flush crept up her neck. "You harbour a viper in your midst; it will turn on you and strike when you least expect. That is in its' nature."

The world seemed to shift and realign itself, a brief flash of grey and rush of vertigo that only she seemed to notice. Hawke's ears rang, but the scene remained the same and her companions stared, awaiting her response. She felt a familiar hunger rise to her belly and let her instincts take control.

Hawke slowly made her way toward Fenris, exaggerating the sway of her hips as she stepped across the slick cobblestones. "Bethany's not a viper… she's a Hawke." She let loose a throaty chuckle as she reached him and languorously ran a hand across his chest, ignoring the outraged noises coming from her sister. She was aware that her actions would probably end up in one of Varric's more embarrassing stories, but no matter. Fenris looked confused but didn't back away from her touch, which made her grin.

Hawke let her hand drift slowly downward and grasped Fenris' belt, moving him so that their bodies just barely touched. She brought her face close to the elf's, luxuriating in his scent and the way his pupils dilated. "And that's not the only thing in a Hawke's nature."

"She's right!" Carver exclaimed from their left. Still clutching Fenris, Hawke turned to face her brother. How could she have forgotten he was there? Carver wore a crazed expression and held a massive sword at his side, which seemed to glint and burn with ethereal flame that hurt her eyes. A similar flaming sword was picked out across his breastplate, and the red and grey robes that fell to his feet rustled in the breeze. Was that… _Templar garb_? Surely she'd have remembered her brother becoming a Templar, wouldn't she?

Carver turned to Hawke, the ghost of a smile they so often shared creeping into his features fleetingly before addressing Fenris. "A Hawke without magic is righteous and just!"

"But can the little brave bird fly with nothing but air to protect it?" A mournful voice to their right caused Hawke's breath to catch. She turned to stare incredulously at the man dressed in simple leathers, unseen sunlight glinting from his grey-streaked hair. This time she did let go of Fenris and took a step toward her father, who was appraising her with a look of deep concern. What was he doing here? Surely he should be at home with mother – Hawke stopped in her tracks as her father raised his hand to halt her, smiling sadly. Confusion tugged at the corners of her mind as she met his stormy grey eyes, and she was transfixed by how strongly it felt as if she were staring into her own. The spell was broken when Hawke felt Fenris's hand on her arm, warm despite the callouses coating his fingers. Her father turned to the elf and nodded before backing away, and Hawke would have gone after him had Fenris not embraced her.

Everything else melted away as Fenris brought his lips to hers, and Hawke felt as if she were burning under his touch. She held him tightly while they kissed as another wave of vertigo washed over her. When their passionate embrace broke Hawke opened her eyes and found that they were inside a cavernous master bedroom, the type found in Kirkwall's sprawling estates. It was strangely familiar and seemed too clean and lived in to be inside the Magister's mansion, though where else it could have been Hawke had no clue. Her musings were cut short as Fenris pressed his lithe body on top of hers and she gasped as he ripped her bodice open with one swift movement, pausing to meet her eyes devilishly before lowering his mouth to her chest, and she wrapped her legs around his body as she ran her hands across the muscles of his back, tiny sparks flying from the places her fingertips met the tattooed lyrium laced across his deliciously bare skin –

Hawke gasped and shot up in bed, clutching the rough-spun wool blanket to her chest. Sweat dripped down her face as she struggled to catch her breath, the cheerful morning light shining through the window and sour smell of Qunari cheese that permeated the house bringing her back to reality.

This was the third time in a week Siobhan had dreamed about her first encounter with Fenris, although it was the first time her mind had gotten so – _ahem_ – creative with the circumstances. As she stepped out of bed she urged herself away from the steamier parts of the night and struggled to remember what her late brother and father had said. Carver had been adamant that their lack of magic was to their advantage, which certainly was not out of character for him… but her father… what had he said? Hawke rubbed her temples as she thought back, but all she could be sure of was that he had called her his "brave bird", his nickname for her as a child. She thought he'd also been speaking about magic… but then _Fenris_…

"To the void with it!" Hawke shouted as she kicked the chest at the foot of her bed. It was only a blighted dream, after all. Thankfully Bethany had vacated the bedroom they shared in Gamlen's house earlier; else she surely would have had to field a bevy of questions she was not in the mood to answer. Hawke lunged at the floor into a push-up position and fell into her daily workout routine with a vigor that surprised even her.

Her relationship with sleep was a tumultuous one at best; while half the battle was getting to sleep in the first place what vexed Hawke the most were her dreams. Mages were supposed to be the ones that spent all of their sleeping hours in the void, but Bethany said she rarely remembered her dreams and instead badgered Siobhan mercilessly about her own. Siobhan dreamed nearly every night, or at least every night she had enough sleep to get there. More often than not they were warped memories that tortured her or strange scenarios infused with adventure, but sometimes they were snippets of events that would come to pass after she dreamed them… and sometimes they were something altogether different, disturbingly realistic. Hawke remembered how the night air had felt cool against her skin and Fenris's lips had tasted astonishingly sweet, feeling unsettled that her mind could conjure something that felt so _real_.

Since leaving Ferelden over three years ago she'd had countless dreams about her brother; each time Hawke awoke from one she felt as if the scab had been ripped off an invisible wound, the pain fresh as the day he'd passed away. Though he'd been Bethany's twin people had often joked that he was really hers born two years late. Impetuous, stubborn and rambunctious as children the two had become especially close, often sneaking away to get into trouble that Bethany rarely wanted anything to do with. Carver had been Hawke's closest friend, and though companionship certainly hadn't come hard for her in Kirkwall she still felt the void from losing him.

Dreams about Fenris however were quite another story. Hawke didn't know why he'd haunted her sleep so frequently as of late – or at least she didn't want to admit to the most likely reason. She grunted as she finished her push-ups and stepped onto her sturdy wooden chest, hopping to grab an exposed ceiling rafter and beginning a set of chin-ups furiously. It was relatively common for her to dream about sex – Hawke just figured that if you did something enough while awake it only made sense to do it while asleep as well – and dreams about having sex with her friends weren't even that new, but Fenris? Something about it gave her a giddy feeling in her stomach and set a blush across her cheeks that made her want to retch. She was not some schoolgirl maiden yearning for storybook romance, and damned if she would act as such. She had no shortage of other suitors looking for everything from a night of fun to marriage; Fenris just wasn't one of them. They might get along well and even flirt from time to time but that was where it ended.

Hawke stopped her chin-ups and hung from the ceiling, luxuriating in the way it stretched her muscles before swinging to the floor to change from the smallclothes she slept in. She slipped into simple black leathers, the usual light armour she wore when she did her work. Flexible, breathable and sturdy, it suited her needs perfectly, allowing her to sneak amongst the shadows and step lightly around traps. As she struggled into her top however she couldn't help but think that practicality be damned, if it would result in something that intense she really should invest in a bodice.

_Maker be damned_ Hawke thought as she mentally slapped herself and stepped into her uncle's common room. She had to _stop_ thinking about it. Gamlen was passed out at the table, still reeking of wine from the night before, a half-eaten plate of ever-present Qunari cheese and – _ugh_ – fish at his elbow. Two notes were propped on the desk by the door, one from her mother saying she'd gone to see about petitioning the viscount to regain the rights to the Amell estate and another saying Bethany had gone to meet Anders and Siobhan had to join them _as soon as possible_. As she mentally prepared herself to venture to Darktown and parley with the two mages Gamlen shouted something about whores in his sleep, gesturing wildly and flinging the day-old plate of food to the floor. His gentle snoring then resumed, but Hawke's boots were covered in food and she now stank like an unwashed dock-worker.

It was going to be a long day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note:** The events of the next two chapters were originally combined into one, but it just became too long to manage - so apologies for the double-upload.

And since I neglected to mention before, Siobhan is pronounced "shee-vahn", fyi.

Enjoy. :)

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**Chapter 2 -**_ two mages and a rogue walk into a clinic..._

Siobhan hadn't exactly been surprised to learn that her sister was with Anders. The two had been spending increasing amounts of time together, ostentatiously to feed Bethany's interest in healing – though Hawke had suspicions that the ex-Grey Warden's rugged handsomeness had something to do with it. What she couldn't fathom was why they required _her_ presence – but, if it would take her mind off the night before, then she couldn't complain. An image of Fenris as he leaned over her, emerald eyes glinting and silver hair falling around his deliciously smouldering face flashed into her mind. _No!_ Hawke thought savagely as she wound her way through Lowtown. If she could have kicked herself without looking like an abomination with dexterity issues, she would have.

The Lowtown market thrummed with people bustling in the heat of the late morning sun. The sound of merchants hawking their wares, couples laughing and sour-faced housewives bartering with shopkeepers may have been an assault to most people's ears, but to Hawke it was sweeter than a Val Royeaux Chantry chorus – and not only because she could barely choke down laughter whenever she heard an Orlesian accent. It was difficult to brood upon her subconscious when there were so many interesting characters around, and the necessity to maintain a firm awareness of her surroundings ensured a rush of adrenaline that a thousand sleepless nights couldn't keep at bay. Neither could she complain about the prime opportunity a busy market offered for her to hone some of her more unsavoury skills. Hawke breathed in the pungent combination of food and bodies, flexing her lithe fingers.

As a rule, she tended to avoid picking the pockets of anybody who seemed particularly needy or downtrodden – a category which included increasing numbers of Fereldens as they continued to find ways into the city – but that still left nobles, shady characters and a whole host of iniquitous shopkeepers as fair game. Pickpocketing and thievery were but two of the skills that ensured a steady flow of work for her in the first place, and besides which they allowed her to practice slipping through a crowd unseen. She told herself that the magpie's nest of interesting odds and ends she'd amassed over time was but the icing on the necessary sweet-roll, and had nothing to do with her inexplicable attraction to things that weren't hers. Stepping around a barefooted elvish woman with arms full of fabric the rogue zeroed in on a pair of well-dressed men conversing at a baker's stand.

After a cursory glance around to ensure she was out of any watchful city guard's eyesight – along with a mental note that Aveline would _kill_ her if she knew what she was up to – Hawke slipped through the crowd with liquid grace until she reached a spot she could keep an eye on her mark. Feigning interest in a hanging rack of cheap amulets Hawke watched the pair from the corner of her eye, deciding that the ginger-haired man with the belly protruding from a dusty surcoat would be the less watchful of the two. His companion was a squat fellow with a sharp look in his beady eyes that Hawke was wary of, but he seemed too intent on proving a point to be an issue. After a moment she casually advanced to a potter's table next to them, studying a hideous vase with mock enthrallment as she waited for the moment to strike.

"I just don't see what the problem is." Fat-And-Ginger gestured with one hand as he leaned heavily on the table leaden with bread and sweets. "Half of them are children and old ladies, aren't they?"

"Children and old ladies that could suck the life out of you with so much as a sidelong glance." Beady-Eyes replied, giving his companion a patronizing look. "You heard what happened with the Ferelden mages during the Blight."

Hawke's ears pricked and she had to work to keep a straight face as she examined a pair of lopsided ceramic cups. Even now it was difficult to verify any of the post-Blight gossip that reached Kirkwall, but word of home was still word of home.

Fat-And-Ginger was evidently stalling, taking his time choosing a honeybun and dropping a copper in its place. He tittered nervously and cleared his throat. "I heard that mages helped the Hero end the Blight."

"Two!" Beady-Eyes spat, bringing his fist down on the table with a crash that made his companion jump. "One, maybe two spell-spewers at the most –compared to _hundreds_ who ran amuck as soon as the Blight hit, embracing demons and creating abominations left and right! Leave them be for any reason and they'll bring down the Gallows as swiftly as they destroyed the Circle Tower."

Hawke found herself rooted to the spot as the red haired man take a hearty bite of his bun. "They are – nom – dangerous", he conceded, chewing noisily.

"Mages shouldn't be allowed to stay in the city." Beady-eyes continued. "What does it mean for our safety when the Templars can't even keep a bunch of mud-crusted mages in Ferelden under control? Half of them probably escaped and are stalking our streets as we speak," – his words caused Fat-And-Ginger to loudly choke on his honeybun –"waiting for the moment to strike with their blood magic. The Knight-Commander should turn every Maker-damned mage in the Gallows Tranquil, and have her pick of the refugees for good measure."

Hawke stared after the pair as they walked away, all visions of what their pockets contained abandoned. Sure, she'd heard rumours of Ferelden's Circle of Magi falling, but assumed it had more to do with the darkspawn than the mages themselves. If the man's claims _were_ true, a disaster of epic proportions would have had to take place, and she didn't want to think of the horrifying things magic might have wrought within the Tower's walls. Still… the venom in the man's voice, and the sheepish speed with which his friend came to agree with him made her stomach churn with discomfort. It seemed like every word of Ferelden that reached Kirkwall fanned the flames of hatred for her countrymen, and the Maker only knew what would happen when paranoia of magic was added to the mix.

The bustle of the market's crowd suddenly seemed more stifling than entertaining, and Hawke had a strong urge to get as far from it as possible. Pickpocketing forgotten, she settled for deftly plucking one of the honeybuns from the baker's table and hurried off toward the entrance to Darktown, no longer in the mood for lollygagging.

Anders' clinic may have been advantageous to the abundance of refugees and other needy patients it saw, but Hawke felt like it was conveniently located in the most disgusting corner of the city possible. The stairs leading to Darktown were slick with grime, and her footsteps echoed eerily in the confines of the covered stairwell. She smelled the bottom before she reached it, stifling the gag that always greeted her as the area's scent of sewage assaulted her senses. Giving her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim, Hawke noticed a scrawny child sneaking toward her.

"Here," she said, tossing him the honeybun as she started walking. "Don't take sweets from strangers."

A few minutes and a half-dozen twists and turns later she found herself standing outside the clinic's discreet set of wooden doors. Only after a careful look around to ensure nobody was watching her did she slip inside. Perhaps one of Kirkwall's best kept secrets, the clinic was usually packed to the gills; today, however, seemed far quieter than usual. Only a handful of people occupied the spacious room, sitting or reclining on dingy beds in varying states of recovery. A haggard looking man cradled a softly crying girl in his lap, his gaze absently trailing Hawke as she double-checked that the door was closed snugly behind her. Anders and Bethany were hunched over a counter at the back of the clinic, the trill of her sister's laughter reverberating brightly against the damp stone walls.

"Did she really get _that_ sick on the way over?" Anders asked Bethany, amused, as Hawke made her way toward them. They seemed to be in the process of mixing a poultice; Anders pointed to various jars and bundles of herbs which Bethany added to the mixture in turn, grinding them with vigor.

Bethany giggled. "You don't know the half of it. Siobhan was so queasy that less than a day in the captain was already threatening to toss her overboard along with her pail of vomi – "

"I see my reputation precedes me." Hawke said dryly, clapping the two mages on their backs. "Or is there another 'Siobhan' around that I don't know about?"

"Hawke, you're here!" Anders at least had the grace to look embarrassed; Bethany just grinned.

"Try not to act too excited to see me – your patients might get the wrong idea." Hawke tried not to appear as exasperated as she felt when addressed her sister. "Must you tell _everyone_ we meet about the _one time_ I got seasick?"

"You mean the entire trip from Ferelden to Kirkwall? For someone with a mouth like a sailor, you could have at least _tried_ to compose yourself on open water." Bethany finished grinding the mixture and gave Hawke a sidelong glance, waving a hand in front of her face. "You smell like a sailor, too. What happened to you?"

"Our dear uncle threw a plate of fish at me – and I think he called me a whore, but with him you can never really be sure."

Anders chuckled as he neatly scooped the poultice into a small jar. "Is everyone in your family this… eccentric?"

"Oh, we're pretty average for a bunch of ex-nobles and children of apostates." Hawke retorted, pushing the curled mass of dark hair out of her face. "So, I was supposed to come here _as soon as possible_?"

Bethany handed Anders a lid from a box on the counter, which he secured onto the jar with a snap. She nodded as she wiped her hands on her skirts. "I would have waited for you, but you were actually sleeping so I didn't bother. I take it you had a good night?"

Hawke remembered how she'd dreamed of wrapping her fingers around Fenris' belt to draw him closer, then _wrapping her legs around him as they_ – she felt her face turn red and wished her hair was still in the way to conceal it.

"You have trouble sleeping?" Anders suddenly gave her his full attention, concern drawn across his face.

"She doesn't sleep," Bethany offered, "so much as –

Siobhan groaned. "I really appreciate the level of privacy our relationship has."

"– vacillate between periods of waking and occasionally passing out from exhaustion." Bethany motored on, ignoring Hawke's glare. "And sometimes drink."

"You _do_ look flushed." Anders managed to bring a hand to her forehead, dodging her attempt to smack him away. "And you're very warm. Bethany, take that poultice to the man over there and tell him how apply it to his daughter – they should come back if her fever doesn't subside. Hawke, sit down."

Siobhan crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows as Bethany hurried away. Anders pursed his lips and stared back, his expression stating clearly that their stand-off _would not end_ until her butt was planted firmly on the bed next to them. Admitting defeat, she plopped down with a dramatic sigh – she knew better than to try and escape when he got all _medical_ on her.

She held as still as possible, willing her heart rate down as Anders examined her. The last thing she needed was unwarranted attention from a male – even one as platonic to her as the mage – and Hawke could only pray that he didn't clue in to what _exactly_ her ailment was. Thankfully, his methodical movements did wonders for taming her unwanted arousal. Hawke found herself being healed by him post-battle so frequently that she'd grown used to it, and his touch was both familiar and clinical. She was relieved when he shrugged and straightened, turning back to the counter.

"So, what's the prognosis? Should we get Varric started on something good for my tombstone?"

"Factoring in the amount you drink, your line of work, and the time Isabella said you 'tag-teamed' someone – You'll live." Anders smiled as he considered a row of bottles on a shelf; evidently not finding what he was looking for, he opened a drawer and began to sort through it instead. "Why can't you sleep?"

Hawke rolled over so she lay on her front and propped herself up on her arms. "Oh, I have far more interesting things to do. I'm currently plotting to pose as King Alistair, take over Kirkwall and rename it _Lothering II_ – I just can't get the facial hair right."

Bethany returned, giving a wave to the father and daughter as they left. "Did you ask her?"

"About my beard-to-mustache ratio? Because I could use some help deciding which should be more pronounced."

"Actually," Anders said as he switched drawers, "I could use_ your_ help. An acquaintance approached me with a task that's suited to your skills, and they're willing to pay."

Hawke shrugged. "You know me; I'll do anything for a sovereign."

The mage kept his gaze focused on his search, but Hawke noticed his expression had become carefully blank. "Anything?" Though he asked it innocently enough, it was enough to cause her to do a double-take.

"We'd have to go to the Chantry." Bethany offered, shooting her sister a reassuring smile when she opened her mouth to protest. "But it will be simple!"

"You're kidding." Hawke looked from one mage to the other, desperately hoping for some hint of a jest – but found none. "Wait. You're _serious_?"

Anders crouched down and began rifling through the bottommost drawer of the set. He eventually extracted a hide bag from the back and handed it to Hawke; she accepted it, confused by his apparent reluctance to meet her gaze. He straightened and smoothed his robes. "This person needs something that was left inside of the Chantry, hidden in a spot very few know about. She did have someone on the inside to help, but that… can't happen anymore."

Hawke opened the bag to find some kind of tisane mixture; she wrinkled her nose at the smell of chamomile before sealing it and tucking it into her back pocket. "This is insane. You _do_ remember what happened the last time we went to the Chantry?"

"Of course." Anders' face fell in a manner that caused her to immediately regret her words. He took hold of his staff and absently turned it over in his hands, looking hopelessly like a scolded puppy. _Shit._ "The incident with Karl is the reason I can't do it myself – they'd recognize me immediately. Please, Siobhan. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

Guilt boiled in her stomach as Hawke debated, but between her sister's expectant glare and Ander's crestfallen demeanor she knew she couldn't say no.

"Fine," she announced, pocketing the instructions for finding the mystery object Anders handed her, "But if I burst into flame when I get inside, it's _your _fault."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note:** For the record, I have nothing against mages. In fact, I would give my left foot to be able to do a fraction of what mages can in real life - and considering my rather pricy tattoos, that's saying something. Siobhan, however, feels differently - as you'll learn. It bears being mentioned.

And enjoy.

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**Chapter 3** - _surprises, surprises everywhere - and not a drop to drink._

The distance between the clinic in Darktown and the Chantry in Hightown was immense, and Hawke had the pleasure of fending off a barrage of questions for the entire duration of the upward trek. She usually worked hard to maintain an albeit strained level of friendship with Bethany, and under most circumstances had no problem protecting her good-natured sister from any misgivings she had about their relationship. Hawke simply didn't consider incessant badgering about the contents of her dreams to be "most circumstances".

"There has to be a reason you're so unpleasant today!" Bethany insisted as they climbed the ornate set of stone stairs leading to the uppermost level of the city.

"Find a mirror and you'll stare it right in the face." Hawke muttered as they reached the top, squinting in the harsh sunlight.

"If lack of sleep isn't the issue, then it had to have been something that happened _while_ you slept." Bethany had a better knack for reading her than Hawke would have liked, and worried at any piece of information she read in her face like a dog with a bone.

"I don't see why you're so interested in what happens while I'm sleeping." Hawke led them through the throng of people perusing Hightown's market square, which was far more orderly than that of Lowtown. "It's just a lot of snoring and showing up to battle in nothing but my underpants."

"I wouldn't be so interested if you'd just confide in me once in a while." Bethany had no problem keeping up with her sister, even when she agitatedly picked up her pace. "Did you dream about Carver again?"

_Yes. _"No."

"Was it anything out of the ordinary?"

_Oh Maker, yes._ "No."

"You have to tell me something." Bethany said. "Or else I'll tell Anders you have strange dreams on top of insomnia and see what he does then. You'll be _drowning _in tisanes by the time he's done with you."

Bethany had her there. Hawke sighed, slowing as they approached the looming Chantry. She scanned the perimeter of the building and wracked her brain for some aspect of her dream that wouldn't give away quite how – _unique_ – it had been. "It was just about the night we met Fenris."

Bethany screwed up her face. "Ugh, Anders won't be interested in that at _all_. You realize he's infatuated with you, right?"

Hawke balked, about to whip around and demand of her sister _which one_ when a trio of Templars exited the Chantry, briskly trotting down the steps. She froze, recalling what the beady-eyed man in Lowtown had said should be done to Ferelden mages before leaping at her sister in a panic, throwing her into the entrance of a nearby alley and pushing her unceremoniously into a doorway. Bethany screeched with indignation but Hawke clapped a hand over her mouth, pushing her against the carved wood door. "Be cool!" she hissed; her sister glared daggers in response.

Hawke tensed when she heard the Templars stroll by leisurely, discussing whatever it was Templars talked about. When she was certain the coast was clear she let go of Bethany, who stumbled out of the doorway looking mad enough to spit. "What the hell was that for?"

"I had the sudden urge for a cuddle." From her vantage point at the entrance to the alley Hawke gave the Chantry courtyard another quick scan, relieved that none of the people milling about seemed to have noticed their actions. "Those were Templars, and you're an apostate. Figure it out."

"We see Templars nearly every day! That doesn't give you the right to go around shoving mages into alleys all hither and tither." Bethany pushed past Hawke out into the courtyard, crossing her arms.

For once, Siobhan didn't have a response. On the one hand her sister was traipsing around in broad daylight with a staff strapped to her back, but on the other… she had a point. Nothing had happened to her or any of the other mages they knew for simply going outside. Regardless, the paranoia picked up from a lifetime on the run wouldn't go away just because her sister was an adult, and her protective instincts toward Bethany had only deepened after the loss of their brother.

"Just be careful." Hawke said as she steeled herself to enter the hub of the city's pious and devout. "And keep watch."

"It'll be a piece of cake." Bethany assured her as Hawke climbed the steps, wondering how quickly she would come to regret venturing outside that morning in the first place.

* * *

Nobody took special notice of Hawke as she entered the Chantry, a fact which she mentally saluted the massive statue of Andraste for in thanks. Following the instructions from Anders she'd memorized, she lingered by the base of the stairs until she was sure no one was watching before silently sneaking upward.

If she remembered correctly, there should be a row of doors at the left of the upper floor – _yes! _Adrenaline flooded Hawke's veins as she flitted through the first door and crouched, allowing herself a moment of stillness as the peered down the hallway she had to travel. Rows of sconces lined the walls, bathing the hall with a cheerful light that chased away any hint of shadow Hawke could rely on for stealth, and the area lacked anything she could hide behind in a pinch. She would have nothing at her disposal apart from her own skills if she came across anyone else. Despite herself, Hawke's heart thrummed in excitement.

The right-side wall was helpfully devoid of any doors. Keeping her back to it and remaining as low to the ground as possible, Hawke stealthily made her way toward the end of the hallway. She paused only once as her ears made out hushed voices from behind one of the closed doors, but whatever the room's occupants were up to kept their attention elsewhere. Hawke quickly reached the last door and shuffled over to open it, discovering with a loud _click_ that it was locked.

No matter. She had it picked in less than a moment and entered silently, finding herself in what appeared to be a storage room. Hawke spied the bookcase Anders said would be adjacent to the entrance and cleared the contents from the second shelf to the bottom, revealing a false back-panel with a tiny lock. She picked that as well, musing all the while that it was a good thing they'd gotten her to help. The image of Anders and Bethany clumsily attempting to force open a locked door made her stifle a laugh, and she had to regain composure before continuing. She reached her arm down to the bottom of the compartment, groping until her fingers grasped a cylindrical object wrapped in rough fabric.

Siobhan extracted the bag, dangling it by the twine drawstrings triumphantly. Though she itched to leave the Chantry as soon as possible, once she'd restored the bookcase to its original state burning curiosity got the best of her. She untied the bag and held it upside down, allowing its sole content to fall into her outstretched hand. She stared for a moment, disbelief settling in as she recognized the object. Any feelings of elation she may have felt abandoned her in an instant as turned the small glass vial over in her hand.

She was holding a phylactery.

* * *

Once outside the Chantry Hawke stormed down the steps two at a time, pushing past an astonished Bethany as she made way for the nearby alley. Her sister gaped and followed her, breaking into a jog to keep up as Hawke practically threw herself around the corner.

"What's wrong – did you run into trouble?" Bethany asked before her sister thrust her arm toward the young mage, glaring at her until she took hold of the bag in her outstretched hand.

"You knew about this, didn't you?" Hawke spat at her sister. "Didn't you?"

"I, uh – yes!" Bethany stammered, clearly shocked by Hawke's reaction. "What's the problem?"

"The _problem_ is that I might have just helped an apostate escape the Circle, with no backup," Hawke struggled to keep her voice at an enraged whisper lest anyone overhear, "_without even knowing it!_"

Bethany straightened and narrowed her eyes, adopting an infuriating expression Siobhan knew all too well. "I'd have thought you of all people would support a mage finding their freedom."

Hawke couldn't believe what she was hearing. "You have no idea who this belongs to, Bethany! For all you know it could be a blood mage, or something worse!"

"Anders wouldn't have anything to do with a blood mage." Her sister responded matter-of-factly, apparently struggling to control her temper.

"Yeah, well, you can tell Anders I won't have anything to do with _him _if he pulls something like this again." Hawke stalked out of the alley, clenching and unclenching her fists as her sister followed. "And take the damned phylactery with you."

"He wanted to talk to you when we were done."

"Why, so I can be dragged into even more things I want to stay out of? Tell him I'll talk to him when I'm good and ready." Hawke stared her sister down until she turned and strode haughtily away.

_Andraste's Maker-damned blighted toenails! _Hawke fumed as she headed in the opposite direction, resolving to take the long way home if it meant she could avoid her sister. Her attention was focused on bitter thoughts as she walked; therefore she didn't notice the crouching figure sneaking up behind her until –

"SURPRISE!" A voice screeched from behind her as a pair of arms reached around her chest. Hawke reflexively elbowed her assailant in the stomach and broke from their grasp savagely, whipping her daggers from their sheaths as she sprang away into a crouch – only to see Isabella doubled over from a mixture of pain and laughter.

"You should have seen the look on your face!" The raider managed to choke out between gasps. Hawke straightened and balked, rushing to help her friend to her feet.

"You should see your face! What the blazes are you doing?"

Isabella had to grasp Hawke's shoulder as she struggled to catch her breath, strained giggles interspersed amongst her wheezes. "I – gasp – have been trying to find you all day!" Hawke gave her a moment to compose herself, laughing when she finally straightened and flashed a dazzling smile as if nothing were amiss. "You are the world's hardest person to trail! First I hear you're in the Lowtown market, then Darktown, _then_ I finally find you in the Chantry courtyard?"

"I don't even want to know how you found all that out."

"I have my sources." Isabella replied mysteriously.

"More like you have Varric's sources." Hawke shook her head. "You could have just waited at my place, you know. Gamlen's probably still passed out in a fish-drenched drunken stupor – you'd get along swimmingly."

"Well you're in luck, because that's exactly where we're headed!" Isabella tapped Hawke's nose with a suntanned finger, causing her to scrunch her face in confusion. "I have not one, but two surprises for you!"

"Is this including the surprise attack, or additional to?"

"Additional to." Isabella cocked an eyebrow and grinned, clearly pleased with herself. "You'll never guess who's coming to the Hanged Man with us."

Hawke gasped, clutching her hands to her chest. "How sweet! You mean the Viscount finally responded to all my invitations?"

"No," the Rivaini took her by the arm and dragged her off, practically skipping in amusement, "but Fenris did. Varric is going to piss himself when we show up with him in tow."

Hawke wanted to inform her that the dwarf had far too much poise to soil himself in any capacity – but could only manage a strangled grunt as her cheeks flushed and heart leapt in her throat. Instead she let herself be shepherded toward the steps to Lowtown, bewildered that she'd found herself stealing from a religious institute, reaming out her sister, being attacked in the middle of a Hightown courtyard and was likely about to embark on a drunken adventure with unfathomable results – all before four-o-clock.

She _really_ should have stayed home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes:** I'll refrain from making a comment about how long this is... apart from saying that I had to get it out of my system before this semester started. I may not be able to update as much, but on the flip-side my writing might improve thanks to a couple English courses.

If you haven't played through it already, it will be beneficial to take a peek at the Shepherding Wolves quest in Act 1. As for this chapter's recurring theme - yes, I do have the sense of humour of a thirteen year old boy, thanks for noticing. ;) Cheers, and thanks for the reviews!**  
**

* * *

**Chapter 4** – _the penetration trepidation_

"You know, the last time you straddled me was far more enjoyable."

Hawke was sitting on the side of her bed, trying not to move as Isabella perched in her lap brandishing a glass of vodka in one hand and a stained rag in the other. The raider raised the glass to Siobhan's lips, allowing her to take a long swig before soaking the rag in the leftover alcohol. She studied Hawke for a moment as if pondering her next move before shoving the fabric violently up her left nostril.

"Simmer down!" Isabella commanded as Hawke struggled. "I have to do both sides."

"But it burns - umph!" Hawke's protests were cut short as her friend shoved the rag up her nose yet again; she coughed as she inadvertently snorted a few drops of liquid.

Generally Siobhan didn't ask questions when Isabella set into motion one of her illustrious plans – at least when they were independent from any legitimate danger. The two rogues had quickly learned that their minds operated on much the same level of debauchery, so it was rare for her to even consider having misgivings; besides which, she figured that the former captain still harboured a commandeering streak that had to be let out at _some_ point. But the events of the day were taking their toll on Hawke's mood, and she was finding it difficult to roll with the punches even hours after the phylactery debacle.

About the only upside to her current situation was that Gamlen's house had been empty on arrival. To say the least, she'd had her doubts about introducing Isabella to her mother – and judging by the maniacal expression on the Rivaini's face, that was within perfectly good reason.

"Enjoy it while you can; the burning's a treat compared to what comes next." Isabella maneuvered her way out of her lap, sauntering into the common room.

"Is that what you tell them?" Hawke called after her. "Here I thought you'd just deny the burn altogether; way to own it." She shifted uncomfortably, grateful for the momentary reprieve from being pinned down. Having a person physically restrain her brought back unpleasant childhood memories – the sensation of feeling trapped, panic constricting her small throat – which Hawke was desperate to forget. Isabella re-entered the room holding what looked suspiciously like one of Leandra's thicker sewing needles.

"I know I have nice orifices, but if you're looking to penetrate one you're going about it the wrong way." Hawke eyed the needle Isabella held – which looked big enough to create an entirely new orifice– with dread. The raider ungracefully hopped back into Hawke's lap in response. _Think happy thoughts_, Hawke told herself as her stomach churned. She felt Isabella's legs clamp around her own, forcing her to remain still. _Happy thoughts _– before she could stop herself she imagined a certain brooding elf in Isabella's place, a notion she immediately regretted as blood rushed to her groin. _Not THAT happy_ – she thought about butterflies instead.

"I need you to be still." Isabella stated matter-of-factly, leaning over to grab a candle from the bedside table and holding the needle in its flame. Hawke screwed her eyes shut and imagined she was instead conversing with a dainty, non-threatening swallowtail.

"Remind me why we're doing this?" Siobhan asked, inhaling sharply when the searing-hot needle came into contact with her septum. The butterfly made thoughtful noises as she pricked various parts of Hawke's nose, eventually settling at the first place she'd tested.

"Because facial piercings are a sign of rank," Isabella stated, pushing an errant curl of Siobhan's hair out of her way, "and your rank has risen dramatically."

"I have plenty of tattoos; you're welcome to claim one of them instead." Hawke gulped as she felt a hand tip her head slowly backward.

"I think your visit to the Chantry is having adverse effects – you're sounding utterly repressed." The rogue retorted. Siobhan opened her eyes to respond and found Isabella's face mere millimetres from her own; she made a sound astonishingly similar to a purr and nuzzled Hawke's face seductively –

Before sticking her through the nose with the needle.

"Maker's BALLS!" Hawke roared, barely able to make out Isabella's laughter through the ringing in her ears. She'd been stabbed, hit, shot through with arrows and thrown from a speeding cart – but nothing Hawke had experienced before could prepare her for _this_. She bucked as Isabella swiftly withdrew the needle and replaced it with a silver ring, expertly sliding the missing third of the band into place with a snap.

"You look fantastic!" Isabella announced as she lunged out of a still-flailing Siobhan's reach. Hawke gasped and sputtered, bringing her hands to her face in shock.

"I think you just learned to speak No-Sex-Again." She finally managed to choke, staring at her friend incredulously.

"Oh my, one person refuses to have sex with me?" Isabella leaned against the bedroom wall, looking as self-satisfied as the cat that caught the canary. "Whatever will I do now?"

Hawke lay back on the bed with a flop, watching the room spin as searing agony tore through her nose. "What exactly did I do to merit this honour, oh Queen of Scumbags?"

"You finally got that insipid musician out of my hair."

"The one I pretended to take home with me and dropped off at the Qunari compound instead?"

"That's the one!" Isabella helped her up as a sharp knock sounded from the front door. "No one's seen him since. I can only imagine the look on his face when he awoke outside, expecting to be ensconced in the arms of a beautiful woman – only to find himself spooning some homesick Sten."

Still vexed by the sharp throb in her septum Siobhan stumbled into the common room to see Isabella open the front door, gesturing welcomingly. Due to either the drink or the pain – or likely, a combination of both – Hawke had to stop and grasp hold of a wooden chair, vision blurring as a wave of nausea assaulted her. She attempted to focus on a portion of the scuffed floor, but the blighted thing kept _moving_– Hawke squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, a pair of familiar feet in black wrappings came into focus.

"I see you've started without me; or rather smell."

Hawke slowly allowed her eyes to drift upward – employing a great amount of willpower not to linger on the perfectly formed pair of thighs or allusion of taught midriff behind a snug breastplate – to see Fenris appraising her with an expression suspiciously close to mirth.

"Careful now, we don't know what will happen if you smile." Still grasping the back of the chair Hawke forced herself to straighten, attempting a smile of her own. Though the sensation was markedly different with the new hole in her nose, she was relieved to find that it was still possible. "I'm not in the mood for sweeping up if your cheeks shatter all over the floor."

"You've got some blood on your –" the elf pointed to his nose, took a better look at her, and then gestured broadly instead "– everywhere."

Hawke hastily brought her arm to her face, clearing what she hoped was the majority of the gore off with her sleeve. Isabella cleared her throat noisily, propping the front door open with one foot as her fingers beat an impatient tattoo against the frame. "Are we going to discuss Hawke's piss-poor pain threshold all night, or are we going to _do_ something?"

"Let me guess – you're '_b-o-o-ored_.'" Fenris drew out the syllables in a near-perfect imitation of Isabella that Hawke couldn't help but laugh at in shock. Even Isabella seemed too surprised by his rare joke to respond; instead she turned on her heel and left the building, leading the mismatched trio into the rapidly descending twilight of Lowtown.

Dark had fallen earlier than expected. Hawke was glad to feel a chill in the air as they descended the steps of Gamlen's house to the streets of the Old Town slums. Summer was coming to an end, which may not have meant much of a shift in the seasons – but it _did_ mean longer and colder nights, which were always welcome to Siobhan. Fenris took a place beside her as they walked, their footsteps falling into a comfortable rhythm as they followed Isabella toward the Hanged Man.

Despite the proximity to the illustrious inn the streets in this part of town were all but empty. The silence that coated the air seemed premature, and Hawke was instinctively wary. A lone bird flapped overhead, its lyrical caw sending a shiver down her spine, and suddenly voices sounded from nearby.

"Word is you're looking for help." The man's voice was rough; Fenris and Hawke shared a look. She shrugged, motioning for them to investigate.

"I need someone native to the dark places beneath Lowtown –" A woman's voice responded, the polished lilt sticking out amidst the urban decay like a sore thumb.

"Well, that's our cue." Isabella interjected, shooting Hawke a wink as they turned onto the nearby street. A woman dressed in Chantry garb was conversing with a thug sporting the most hideous set of cornrows Hawke had ever seen. The Sister looked nervous; as they spoke, she continually glanced around at the shadows.

" – if you claim as much, yes; I will pay." She finished.

"I am, I am!" The cornrowed man insisted. "Let's just step into this alley so me and my fellows can have a look at the coin on offer."

"She has chosen poorly." Fenris remarked as they watched the duo retreat toward a darkened lane.

"Can you _save_ someone that intent on being foolish?" Hawke wasn't entirely sure it was worth the effort – Isabella certainly didn't look impressed – but nonetheless led the way after them.

The moment the woman stepped foot in the alley a number of men materialized from the shadows, the group surrounding her in an instant. Hawke broke into a run when she saw the cornrowed man draw his blades, whipping her daggers from her back and leaping onto him with a hearty battle-cry. The thug went down with a crash, attempting vainly to slash at her face as Hawke straddled him. She knocked one of the blades from his hands and brought her own down savagely, giving him a jagged crimson smile to match the shoddy haircut.

Spitting at the now motionless shady character Hawke sprang up to spot a thug heading toward the cackling Isabella; Siobhan kicked at the backs of his knees, bringing him down in a flash before doing away with a second man creeping up behind her.

As suddenly as the fight had started, the alley was silent again. Hawke's eyes flitted from a calm Fenris sheathing his blade to a gore-splattered Isabella, relieved that they didn't seem any worse-for-wear. And neither, for that matter, did the Sister.

"Thank you for your timely intervention." The woman rushed toward them, looking relieved. "I am out of my element."

Hawke heard Isabella snort from where she crouched, already rifling through one of the dead men's pockets. "What makes you think that?" She muttered, slipping what looked like a gold wedding ring from the corpse's finger onto her own.

"Surely you didn't realize that just now." Hawke echoed, eyeing the woman with suspicion.

"I had to come here to find the kind of person I need – the type with bloody skill, but also integrity. Perhaps…" _here it comes_, Hawke thought, "…the kind who might leap to someone's defence?"

Her story wasn't anything out of the ordinary. She needed _someone_ to escort _some_ person for _some_ important reason from the city. The details were vague, but Hawke found herself concerned with only one – how much they would be paid to do it. Siobhan was reminded of the entire reason she and her sister stalked the streets of Kirkwall in the first place; they had only amassed about half the coin they needed for the Deep Roads expedition. She doubted her sister would forgive her for passing up such a lucrative opportunity, which furthermore would leave someone in obvious need floundering. The Sister bid them to meet at a secret location when they reached their decision, but Hawke had already decided she'd do it.

"Ugh." Isabella said disgustedly once the Sister had left in the company of an awaiting Templar, "If you're going to insist on gallantry, at least let me have my dwarf around for it."

Hawke nodded and Isabella stalked away, shooting them a baleful look over her shoulder as she headed to fetch Varric. Siobhan crossed her arms and studied the sky, trying to shake the feeling that this endeavor would be more complicated than it seemed.

"It is different." Fenris's voice made her jump; she whirled to see him standing next to her, much closer than she would have thought possible without her noticing. He was studying her with interest, dark eyes flitting across her face. She felt herself flush as he looked at her, drinking in his shadowy features and forgetting the circumstances altogether. She basked in the attention as he looked at her with an expression she'd never seen him adopt before; Siobhan remained rooted to the spot as he reached upward, bringing a hand toward her astonished face as if to stroke her –

And lightly touched the ring hanging from her nose. "Ow." Hawke complained, surprised by her presumption of what the elf had been about to do; she'd forgotten about the pain in her nose altogether. _You're awake_, she reminded herself woefully. Still, she realized that outside of battle she and Fenris had never actually touched. She knew his markings caused him discomfort, and thusly avoided lavishing him with the same affection she did everyone else – which meant, Hawke noted with sudden dismay, that if any further touching were to happen _he_ would have to initiate it.

Not an entirely unappealing concept.

"It suits you." Fenris finished, lowering his hand and averting his eyes as Isabella and Varric turned the corner, the dwarf inspecting his infamous crossbow as they walked. Siobhan was unendingly grateful for the distraction.

"In a shocking turn of events," Varric said by way of greeting, his charming smile glinting in the moonlight, "our hero Hawke has found some trouble."

* * *

The look on Varric's face as the four companions and their unlikely charge made their way through the underground passage said it all. He wasn't happy that they'd been saddled into escorting a blighted _Qunari mage_ through the Undercity – nobody was, Hawke especially. She'd been tempted to turn around and walk away from the creepy Templar and Sister Petrice right in the middle of her borderline-fanatical explanation. But something about the way the Saarebas had stood by silently, as if awaiting the next command from the confines of his horrific shackles, had made it impossible for her to leave.

Hawke wanted absolutely nothing to do with any conflict involving mages, and the Qunari besides; but she couldn't abandon _anyone_ to such an obvious existence of slavery. She remembered Fenris saying his former master had kept him on a collar just to mock the Qunari custom, and that had been enough to push her over the edge. She was going to help; she really didn't have any other choice.

"I'll make this up to you, I swear." Hawke whispered as she and Varric stooped side-by-side to disable a trap they'd spotted laid across the dank passage. "I'll get you so drunk this will seem like the best adventure we've ever had."

Varric smiled as his fingers worked to disable the pressure-plates, shaking his head. She was relieved to see that her apology had at least lessened the momentary tension between them. "Don't worry about it, Hawke. I'm right behind you."

An unsettling _clicking_ caused both rogues to jump up – squat, shuddering shapes were advancing toward them with astonishing speed. Spiders. The Saarebas stood by vacantly as the group sprang into action, not even reacting when Isabella muscled him out of her way.

Hawke lunged at a fat black beast with red markings that warned of poison, dodging a stream of venom as she grazed it with her dagger and Isabella rushed to her side. The Rivaini stabbed the spider in one of its pale eyes, giving Hawke the perfect opening to slice its body through. She then whipped around to deal with a spider approaching her from behind, daggers ready to lay the assault when she caught sight of Fenris across the room. He was in the process of decimating a particularly large arachnid, whirling like a god of destruction; her breath caught as he brought his massive blade down upon the beast, lyrium-laced muscles straining at the effort. He moved to dislodge the blade from the twitching corpse, allowing Hawke a prime view as he turned his back to her and bent –

_Shit!_ Hawke kicked the spider advancing on her in its head, bringing her leg up again to stomp it to the ground. As she shook the gore from her boot she was suddenly aware that the elf was staring at her; he quickly looked away, making Hawke even more confused – not to mention displeased. Since when was her becoming distracted such a _thing_? Varric had watched the ordeal with a look of contemplation; Hawke turned to him and plastered a smile on her face, hoping to the Maker that she looked normal.

"Two!" She shouted at him triumphantly, referring to her recent kills. After a moment's study of her the dwarf raised a finger, signalling his "one".

They'd barely made it around the corner to the next portion of the passageway when more spiders dropped from above, spewing sticky webs that threatened to cement the unwary to the gritty floor. This time Fenris rushed before Hawke to action, providing a distraction for her to charge behind a throbbing monstrosity with a vicious backstab. He raised his blade and lopped its head off as a shower of Varric's arrows littered the cramped battlefield. Hawke made an attempt to roll from an oncoming projectile, but due to her lack of focus hadn't sprung into action until a moment too late. The arrow hit her shoulder with a _thwack_, lodging itself harmlessly in the thick leather padding of her armour.

"Andraste's tits, will _everyone_ try to penetrate me today?" she hollered, ripping the now-useless shaft from her shoulder and pushing out the arrowhead. Isabella laughed heartily as she picked herself up from where she'd fallen.

"Three." The dwarf countered, holstering Bianca with a flourish. "Unless you count yourself, in which case it's four."

They ascended a set of grubby steps, the Saarebas following silently. Hawke's limbs felt taught with the tension she'd amassed from battle, and she had to restrain herself from looking at Fenris needlessly, fighting to keep her eyes on their surroundings instead. Her heart leapt from pent-up adrenaline when they came upon a final group of arachnids, hiding amongst the shadows in a cavernous room; they sprang from the walls, shrieking horrifically as webbing and venom and less savoury projectiles filled the air. Fenris and Hawke were thrown together again; she leapt onto the back of a spider headed toward them, her daggers ripping a sizeable chunk from its shell as he dealt with a second creature backed into a corner.

The shadow of a third loomed just as Fenris was bringing down his blade – Hawke rushed forward in a burst of speed, intercepting the monster's leap toward him and backhanding her blade into its head, pinning the creature to the wall. Fenris pushed her aside as she struggled to dislodge her dagger, swinging his claymore at an arachnid that had dropped from the ceiling directly above her. Hawke finally got her blade loose from the wall, turning to find that Fenris had straightened – and they were both lodged firmly into the corner, standing mere inches from one another.

Sweat dripped down her trembling muscles as their eyes met, both panting heavily. Heat swept through her limbs as he stared at her, wide-eyed; she felt a stirring in her abdomen when she realized she could feel his breath on her lips. After an agonizingly long moment he turned, motioning to Varric.

"Five." The elf said as he stalked away, leaving Hawke to frantically try and mask her shaking knees.

* * *

The Qunari talisman felt warm to the touch, though not as warm as the aftermath of the Saarebas' incineration. Hawke could barely make out the remains of the mage as they smoked on the dusty ground, embers fading away to ash as the first hints of sunrise bled across the horizon. She allowed herself a moment to_ feel_ – guilt for needlessly attacking the group of warriors pushing for the inevitable, mourning for the loss of their tortured charge, disgust at the fiery suicide and, above all, confusion.

_Your doubt does not make me wrong_. The Saarebas' words echoed through her mind as she turned the talisman he'd given her over in her hands, studying the alien shapes engraved in the thick copper. Far in the distance, the cries of gulls could be heard as they stirred at the impending daybreak. Siobhan didn't think fighting for the captive's free will had been incorrect… but if it wasn't, why did she feel like she'd made a grave mistake? The Saarebas had spoken of certainty with absolute faith, yet deigned to sacrifice himself in the name of some convoluted ideal even when freedom was offered on a silver platter. The irony of his staunch demeanor compared to her doubt made Hawke feel like a piece of wood adrift on the ocean, beating inconsequentially against unwavering stone. She tried to edge her mind away from morose thoughts as Varric approached, looking as concerned as she felt.

"Clearly Petrice set a trail to us." Hawke commented grimly. She didn't have to gesture to refer to the stillness of the battlefield, littered with the dead.

"It seems likely that she set them on us…" Varric agreed. "But why?"

With one last look at where the enigmatic Qunari mage had once stood Hawke turned, setting her shoulders with resignation as she walked away from the carnage. "We'll just have to find out."

Her companions lingered a few steps behind her as she led them back to the city, silent in light of the dim turn of events. Her thoughts turned darker as they trudged up the rugged path through the Vimmark pass, retracing their steps to the entrance of the Undercity. She couldn't fathom Petrice's motives, but whatever they were Hawke was now sure that the Sister's charitable aspirations were a mere façade for something far more sinister.

"You're hurt." Fenris caught up to her, pointing to the gap in her armour where the Arvaarad's spear had pierced a hole through the seam. It was wonder that her own blood could be spotted amongst the filth of battle that coated her, but she supposed the wound _had _bled profusely.

"Just a flesh-wound." She shrugged. She hardly felt it; the tip had barely pierced her skin before she'd managed to spring away, and both she and her armour would be easily repaired.

"Well." The elf responded smoothly, keeping his voice low enough that only Hawke could hear. He shot her a sidelong glance, eyes glinting and the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips."Since you'll need a break, there's one person who won't try to penetrate you – today."

Siobhan nearly choked on her laugh as the elf stalked ahead of her, his brisk gait dripping with self-satisfaction. Despite herself, she felt her mood lighten along with the watery skies.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: **I'm so, so very sorry for redoing this. There were only a few minor mistakes, but I had to change them else my head may have exploded. I shall never upload anything late at night ever again.  
Cheers!

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**Chapter 5** - _burnt toast_

The smell of toasting bread hung heavily in the air, wafting from the grate above the hearth in the tiny common room. Siobhan squinted in the light spilling from the window, watching particles of dust dance lazily in the sunbeam as she slumped in her chair. She swung her legs back and forth, shins covered in bruises and dirt as only a thirteen year old could manage, impatiently waiting to eat. She jumped as an ungainly foot came into contact with one of the battered table's legs, causing the clay plates stacked on its top to clatter loudly.

"Be patient with him." Siobhan was glad her father didn't seem upset about her leg-swinging, even though he'd told her countless times not to do it. He sat across from her, cupping a steaming mug in his weathered hands. Tiny lines sprang from the corners of his eyes and formed a parenthesis around his lips from decades of laughter, but Malcolm's tanned face was serious as he regarded her.

"Huh?" She tensed the moment the word was out of her mouth – she wasn't supposed to do that, either – but her father paid her lack of manners no notice.

"You must be patient with him, Siobhan." Her father leaned forward as he spoke, meeting her eyes intently. Their gray depths seemed pale blue in the morning light, a colour-changing hallmark that had only been passed on to her; usually seeing the feature they had most in common filled Siobhan with pride, but she was growing uncomfortable under their intensity.

"With who, Carver?" Siobhan swivelled her head around, suddenly aware that the Honnleath cottage was quieter than usual. She scanned the common room, eyes flitting from the empty bench to the bedroom doors, both ajar to reveal vacant beds. The only sound apart from the ugly calls of the pigeons ever-present in the Bannorn was the crackle of the cooking fire; they were alone. "Where is everyone?"

Her father didn't respond, instead studying her as if searching for some sign. Seemingly finding nothing he emitted a hefty sigh, shoulders drooping in defeat. "I'd prayed Bethany was the only one I'd passed this burden to, but it seems…"

Siobhan had no idea what he was talking about, so she remained silent for lack of a better response. The look on his face was so _sad_; she didn't understand. After a long moment he reached across the table; she tried to grasp him but the wood seemed to grow as she moved, making his outstretched hand rest just beyond her fingertips no matter how hard she tried to reach it.

"My brave little bird." Malcolm's face was streaked with tears as he spoke; Siobhan wanted to lunge across the table and hold him tight, but found she was rooted to the spot. "Soon there will be nothing to protect you."

His words tickled the back of her mind, sparking some vague notion of recognition that she couldn't seem to grasp onto. The air of the cottage was becoming hazy; the acrid smell of burning bread filled her nostrils. Siobhan tried to say something reassuring but couldn't so much as part her lips.

"Brave bird." She could barely make out her father's face as the haze surrounded them, licking flames spilling past the hearth to climb the fieldstone walls. "Please be careful. Watch yourself – "

Dark smoke had completely obscured her vision, swirling tendrils of ink dancing before her eyes. She could just barely hear her father's voice, filled with a sorrow that cut her deeply.

"Remember," her father sounded like he was choking back a sob, "you're only flesh and bone."

Then the smoke turned from slate to black and she could move again, but only to find that there wasn't anywhere to go; she was standing on the precipice of a sharp drop toward the ocean, gaping as the chanting figure before her burst into flame. She reached out to stop the Saarebas but singed her hand; cradling it against her chest she began to yell as the raging fire consumed him, the smell of burning flesh triggering her gag reflex. Then the image switched and she was in her childhood room from long ago, watching in horror as her tormentor was incinerated by the hand of her mage father, orange light reflected in his cold eyes – the image switched back to the Qunari, then to the burning man, increasingly alternating until the two became one and the same and the fire burned higher – she heard herself scream as if from outside her body, terror gripping her throat –

– then she was laying on hard stone. The hall was cavernous, with massive pillars reaching up into the darkness; the only light shone from thin streams of lava running the length of the room, illuminating queer carvings in the ancient rock walls. Her screams waned to sobs as sorrow wracked her, strong arms circling her as she shook and cried and cried and cried – the warm body pressed behind her did nothing to lessen the pain that seared through her flesh, the void that filled her soul as she tried in vain to call her _back_, she couldn't be gone, the only person she had left –

This time there was no shock to force Hawke awake; she surfaced from sleep slowly, coming up from her dream with an agonizing sluggishness that made the leaden weight in her chest feel all the heavier. Snugly in bed across the tiny room, Bethany snored softly; Hawke watched the curve of her sister's shoulder rise and fall in the darkness until the methodical movement calmed her nerves. It was late, but it felt as though she had only been asleep for a moment.

She wished she hadn't been asleep at all.

As quietly as she could Hawke sat up in bed, rubbing her temples with a sharp vigour that she prayed would bring her mind back down to reality. So much had happened in this dream – her father's cryptic words hung heavily in her mind, and the tang of smoke still lingered on her tongue.

Hawke hugged her knees to her chest as she watched her sister, fighting the inexplicable urge to go to her. She wanted to crawl into Bethany's bed like she'd done when her sister was small, wanted to hold her and brush the hair from her brow. She wanted to protect her. Hawke hadn't shown that kind of affection to her sister for nearly a decade, and knew that the physicality would be alien enough to jar Bethany awake and raise more questions than it was worth… but still. There was something about the darkness of the stone hall she'd dreamt of, the way the orange light had flickered across her tear-drenched hands, that made her want to shake Bethany awake just to be sure she would respond.

_You're only flesh and bone_, her father had said. She had a feeling his previous words were more important than that infuriating phrase, that she should be contemplating his assertion to be patient with _someone_ – but his closing statement reverberated in her mind. And what had he been crying about? Why had he stared at her so intently, searched her face with such a concern that she felt as if she could still feel his eyes boring into her?

It couldn't really have been him. Malcolm Hawke was dead, and if the Chantry were to be believed he was luxuriating by the Maker's side someplace far away and completely inaccessible. Even if the cannon weren't true, it didn't change the fact that he was gone. Demons, spirits and lesser things were known to spill out from the void, but dead people? Ghosts? It was impossible, and even if it weren't it wouldn't involve her anyway. She was not a mage, or a Sister, or a Dalish Keeper, or anything even remotely out of the ordinary. She was just a woman.

After years of feeding herself the same reassurances Hawke found that they were beginning to ring hollow. Despite the logical knowledge that the dreams were little more than regurgitations of her mind – a kind of subconscious vomit, she'd always told herself – she couldn't shake the feeling that they meant something.

She'd heard that it was impossible to dream about things that a person had not experienced in waking life, but the stone hall she'd found herself sobbing in was completely unrecognizable. It wasn't the first time something she'd never seen before had appeared in her sleep; the memory of her dream about Fenris from a fortnight ago was still fresh in her mind, and the bedroom they'd occupied was certainly not a place she'd recognized. And boy, had she checked – Hawke had revisited every fancy estate she'd been to in her mind, wracking her brain for the mystery location as if finding it would somehow lead to them doing the kinds of things her subconscious mind – and conscious mind, for that matter – clearly wanted to do.

Before she let her mind wander off to thoughts of bedrooms and male elves, Hawke slid out from under the covers, bare feet groping until they came into contact with the floorboards. She felt under her bed for the book she kept there, quietly sliding it out before steeling from the cramped bedroom into the common room.

She lit the lantern resting on the table, but the light seemed more cold than reassuring. Hawke sat uneasily in one of the rickety wooden chairs, flipping the ratty book open to where a piece of charcoal was shoved between the pages. Images of people she knew stared up at her; Aveline's proud face peered over an armoured shoulder, Bethany read a book beneath a flowering apple tree, Mother sat hunched on a bench beside an uncomfortable looking Gamlen. She flipped through the rough pages, past sketches of the Wounded Coast and Hanged Man patrons and barely-recognizable recreations of Ferelden, only to find that the last pages had been used.

Of course they had.

Hawke stood and retrieved a piece of parchment her family used for correspondence instead, and after a moment's consideration grabbed the tisane mixture that had been discarded between a jar of preserves and a rusty pan. She dropped the parchment on the table and made her way toward the fireplace, planning to heat some water for her tea – but the image of the flaming Saarebas and burning man flashed into her mind, making her reconsider the fire. She poured some of the previously-boiled water from the evening's meal into a mug, using that to steep the pungent mixture instead.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to act as if nothing were wrong. She knew she had to do something about it, especially when she had something as major as the Deep Roads expedition to focus on; but as Hawke settled back at the table and began to draw loose lines across the parchment, letting her hand move at its own volition, she found she was at a loss for what she could do. She was good at _killing_ things, not fixing them. She sighed as she continued to sketch, letting the darkness crouching beyond the ring of the lantern's light soothe her. It was never an easy thing to admit, but she needed help. But whose?

She took a tentative sip of her lukewarm tisane, relieved to find the taste felt much smoother on her tongue than the smell had led her to believe. She considered her options as she sketched absently. When Hawke peered down at her drawing, she had her answer. Without knowing it the rough outline of a robed figure had sprang to the page, easy smile peering up at something out of frame as he held a wooden staff in hand.

Anders.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** So, yes, I'm alive; and no, I have not abandoned this story! I'm so sorry it took so long for me to update, and I appreciate everyone who's read this from the bottom of my heart.

It might take another stretch of time before the next chapter is posted. I've recently moved, and may have misplaced the notebooks I write in... so, here's hoping they're found eventually.

Cheers and enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 6** - _of cows, marriage, and mental stability_

"Would you like something to – oh for the Maker's sake, stop doing that." Leandra narrowed her eyes at Siobhan as she leaned wearily on the table, fiddling with the ring in her nose. It didn't hurt anymore, but it itched something fierce. "You look like a bull."

Hawke had learned from experience that the only way for her to make pleasant conversation with her mother was not to at all. So, she bit back a retort, and tried not to focus on the pungent dried cod Leandra was attempting to drop onto her plate. Siobhan was trying to convince herself to visit Anders' clinic, to speak with the mage about her baffling dreams. He would be the first person in years to learn about her issue, not to mention the first person since her father that she'd actually sought advice about it from. The whole thing made her uncomfortable; she needed an extra dose of bravery, not nausea. Siobhan batted Leandra away in annoyance. "Bread is fine."

"Won't you at least toast it?" A cacophony of images from her dream the night before flashed into Hawke's mind; she shook her head and promptly shoved the fluffy white bread into her mouth, hoping to avoid further conversation. With no Gamlen to argue with or Bethany to dote on, Leandra likely felt obligated to turn her attention to her eldest. Siobhan suspected that the idea of them conversing made her mother just as uncomfortable as it did her.

"The family next door, the Briars? Their daughter is getting married." Leandra settled herself across the table from Hawke gracefully. Even while sipping from a horrendously misshapen mug she managed to stay poised; it was disgusting. "I believe her name is Moira."

Hawke grunted in response as she dunked a chunk of bread into her black tea.

"Of course, her betrothed isn't anyone of import, but she seems happy." Leandra looked at her expectantly, evidently wanting a response. "Radiant, in fact."

"Mm." Hawke grunted again and busied herself by ripping the tea-drenched carbohydrates in her hands into even portions. She popped one into her mouth, eyes searching the room for something else to occupy her attention.

"You don't seem to be as happy in Kirkwall as I'd have hoped. Perhaps a betrothal would change things?"

She began to laugh, but because of her full mouth couldn't; she choked instead. Leandra turned from her daughter with pursed lips when Hawke eventually hacked and spat the hunk of mush into her cup. "Why, so we can afford to speed things up in regards to regaining your estate?" Siobhan doubted she'd heard a more ridiculous suggestion in her entire life, and once a vagrant had informed her that they should relocate to the moon to enjoy its mild winters. "I hate to break it to you, but I'm not what nobility looks for in a wife. Beauty, mental vacancy and virginity seem to be requirements – Bethany would be a much better candidate."

Leandra did not seem impressed, although that certainly wasn't out of the ordinary. "Bethany is too young for marriage, and you know that's not what I meant. I am merely suggesting that a bit of stability would be of advantage to you."

Siobhan couldn't believe her ears; she stared at her mother as if she had sprung a second head. "Mother, I don't know if you realize this, but I haven't been in a _stable_ relationship since Eddard Mirehouse."

Leandra's delicate features scrunched in confusion. "Eddard Mirehouse was in Honnleath. You couldn't have been more than fourteen."

Hawke regarded her mother expectantly. "Yes."

"And you've had plenty of men around since then."

This confirmed it; the woman really was daft. Siobhan held her mother's gaze and raised her eyebrows. "Exactly."

Realization finally seemed to hit Leandra; she sighed and narrowed her eyes even further, clenching her hands around the unsuspecting mug. "Well. Whatever your romantic entanglements entail, know that I just want you to be happy."

This was too much; Siobhan didn't think she could maintain an air of civility for much longer. She pushed her plate away and stood, stalking toward the door. "And you're happy for me no matter who I marry, even if it's some illiterate washer-boy?"

Leandra crossed her legs as Siobhan stooped to struggle into a pair of boots. "Even then."

"What about a woman?" Hawke cursed the buckles on her footwear for taking so long to deal with. She wanted _out_.

"Yes."

Finally the last metal clasp was fastened; Siobhan straightened and blew the hair from her eyes, snatching her daggers from their place by the doorframe and strapping the sheaths to her back. "What about an elf, or a dwarf? Perhaps a strapping Qunari?"

Only silence could be heard from the common room behind her, a response that made Hawke smirk. Her mother liked to pretend she was endlessly open-minded, but it was no secret that she harboured a veritable host of prejudices – which Hawke felt were entirely unlike her own wariness of mages. Not similar in the _least_. Besides, Leandra's distaste for elves was comically hypocritical. Her own husband had been the son of a Dalish woman, although that little tidbit of information Malcolm had tactfully glossed over with his wife. It was something only Siobhan knew, and even then she had only been told once her father had grown tired of her constant complaints and finally explained her namesake.

"You make light of it now, but I was your age when I met your father. It is not so unlikely for you to meet someone as well." Leandra ignored her daughter's last remark, straightening as she sipped her tea.

The thought that Hawke had met someone – someone entirely unsuitable, not to mention unattainable – occurred to her. She allowed herself a moment to entertain the idea of introducing Fenris to Leandra ("Mother, meet the escaped amnesiac elven slave I found squatting in Hightown; Fenris, meet the bigoted woman who can't stop gaping at your big eyes and pointy ears") before pulling open the door.

"Well then, I promise as soon as I come across a runaway apostate who asks for my hand, you'll be the first to know." She gave her mother's back a sarcastic wave before slamming the door and rushing down the steps.

"Andraste's Maker-damned weasel infested..." She muttered heatedly as she strode away, words devolving into a string of incoherent curses. Sure, she and her mother didn't have an ideal relationship, but at what point had Leandra shoved her head so far up her own ass that she couldn't tell her bread-winning eldest child from some simpering girl?

_The moment you started acting like one_, a plaintive voice at the back of her mind retorted. Siobhan squashed the voice down as she turned a corner, feeling imperious that she was learning to maintain an iron hold on her mental condition –

Until she nearly bowled head-long into Fenris.

"Hello." The elf looked surprised, but not unhappily so; he raised his dark eyebrows as Hawke stopped in her tracks and righted herself. A small grin pulled at the corners of his lips.

Before she could stop it Siobhan felt a large smile plaster itself across her face. So much for self-control. "Am I hallucinating, or are you really walking the streets of Old Town in broad daylight? Smiling, no less?"

"I'm not." Fenris composed his face into its usual serious demeanor, but his green eyes were still glinting. Hawke enjoyed that, despite the stereotype of elves being smaller than humans, she still had to raise her eyes to look at him; it made her feel like less of the ungainly oaf she was. He waved his hand loosely across her line of sight. "This is all another drunken dream, and you will soon wake with a sore head."

"Smiling _and _teasing? We'd better get you to a doctor." Hawke found she felt too light-hearted to continue standing about; she began walking in the direction she'd originally been heading, trying not to smile too widely as Fenris fell in beside her. "What are you doing here?"

"I've been following you." Fenris replied matter-of-factly, causing Siobhan to look over at him in shock; all traces of jest had been wiped from his face. She nearly stumbled.

"Seriously?" She couldn't imagine why he would, much less _how_, though to any recent stalker's credit she hadn't exactly been without distraction.

Fenris nodded, keeping his eyes trained on the dusty street before them. "I have been cataloguing your every move, peering through the windows of your Uncle's and the Hanged Man. Your life is so fascinating that I'm planning to write a book."

"Write a book? But you can't – oh. Oh!" Laughter bubbled up to her throat, and she had to stop walking until she caught her breath. "That's what, the fourth joke you've made in the past week? If Varric's not careful you'll be outshining even him."

"But not you." Fenris was grinning again. It wasn't an expression she was accustomed to seeing him wear, but Siobhan thought it suited him immensely.

"But of course. I'm on an entirely different level." She scanned the smattering of people going about their business as they resumed their walk, but only absently; there were no city guards about, and everyone was largely ignoring them. Fenris might have been a former slave on the run, but he could take care of himself. She stole a glimpse of the taught muscles of his arms; he certainly _could_ take care of himself. She cleared her throat before continuing. "This seems utterly out of character. Shouldn't you be holed up in your mansion brooding over something?"

"I find it hard to brood when I'm around you." The way Fenris said it seemed off-hand, but it was enough to make Hawke's heart skip. "You interrupt far too frequently for me to really focus on it. And as for being here, I'm in search of apples."

"Ah, yes, the slums' apple trees really are lovely this time of year." Hawke gestured to the stone and brick and general misery that surrounded them. If she ever found something _green_ growing in the area, she would eat her hat. "Do you plan to climb the trees to get the apples or just bash the trunks and hope something falls out?"

"As outlandish as it sounds, I plan to buy them from the market." Fenris said. "My presence in Hightown can be ignored by the neighbours until I am out in public, then it seems to become an issue."

Hawke halted when she realized they had walked clear past the entrance to Darktown. She'd become so engrossed in their conversation that any thought of her nocturnal problems had been wiped clear from her mind. Evidently it was difficult for her to brood around him as well.

"The man at the fruit stand said there wouldn't be any apples until at least next week – don't look at me like that, I always keep tabs on Lowtown's produce situation." Hawke sorely missed the fruits and vegetables that had been so readily available in rural Ferelden, and was still not used to the dietary trials city living presented. She gestured behind her to the stone stairwell carved into the wall. "I was actually going to Anders' clinic, so I'll just be heading back that way."

Fenris' face darkened, his eyes narrowing as he glanced behind her to the Darktown entrance. He crossed his arms. "I was not aware you were friends."

The notion gave her pause. They were certainly friend_ly_, but she wasn't sure that she would consider the mage anything more than a cohort. The relationship she had with him – and if she were being honest, with most people she knew – felt more business-like than anything else. She helped keep his comings and goings under the radar, and he had certainly become indispensable when it came to healing, so they were both getting what they needed from the relationship. Hawke figured it wasn't necessary to take things any further.

She hadn't allowed herself to grow particularly close with anyone since Carver's death, except for maybe Isabela. Even then, Hawke had to admit that the Rivaini hardly counted; rather than loyalty and commitment, a friendship with her required little more than a sense of humour and the odd sexual encounter. And Varric? Varric liked everyone.

She could hardly inform Fenris of that without sounding trite, so she shrugged instead. "He's not so bad, for a mage."

"That you must say so suggests otherwise." Fenris' scowl made him look like he tasted something sour, but he motioned that he would accompany Siobhan nonetheless.

They trudged downward in silence. It wasn't that Siobhan had a problem with talking, especially with someone as fascinating as Fenris had proven to be, but it was rare for her to feel like she wasn't required to offer some sarcastic quip or entertaining story. Frankly, she was surprised that their mutual lack of conversation seemed natural. She felt at ease, even when they delved deeper into the claustrophobic passage and were immersed in darkness. The Maker-awful stench that signaled the bottom of the stairwell barely even registered.

They were nearly at the clinic when they rounded a corner in a particularly narrow passage. The sound of unmentionable liquid dripping from the dank ceiling was unnerving, though Hawke couldn't imagine why it would be. The hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention, and she felt her muscles tense.

She shot a quick glance at Fenris; the elf's lips were pursed, his eyes darting warily around the cramped hallway. Hawke stepped lightly, careful to avoid the dark puddles dotting the reed-covered floor as she struggled to shake off the mounting paranoia. A tiny noise from down the passage, barely perceptible, caught her ear. Hawke would have recognized the familiar _shink_ anywhere.

It was the sound of a dagger being slid from a scabbard.


End file.
